Be or Become
by Vana Tuivana
Summary: A collection of short writings and drabbles on various Tolkien topics and characters. NEW: Chapter 15 added!
1. The Cup

**Series Note:** This will eventually be a collection of short pieces and drabbles in response to the newly formed Halflings board at Parma (www dot parma-eruseen dot net). My responses to the given prompts will go here, as I continue practicing to develop skill in the art of short writing. Comments of any sort are much appreciated.

**Author's Note:** This is based on one version of a tale of the sons of Eärendil, in which, fleeing from the Fëanorians' sack of Sirion, they are discovered: one playing in the waterfall, and the other inside the cave. Thus they are given the names _Elros_ ("Elf of the Spray") and _Elrond_ ("Elf of the Cave").

**The Cup**

The only thing they had taken away from the ruins of their home was this: a cup, wooden, unadorned and empty. It was the one the younger had drunk of that morning, when their breakfast was interrupted by shouts from the city beyond. Their mother had sent them away too quickly for the boy to remember to put the cup down; he had clutched it in his hand as they fled, forgotten until this moment.

The elder child held it in his hand, considering. He had not said a word, though the younger had wept on the long, cold journey through the rain, deep into the wood. Wise beyond his years and pragmatic, he spoke now only: "Are you hungry?"

The younger, disregarded into silence, sniffled away the last of his tears; nodded uncertainly. His brother held up the cup. "Fill this with water, and drink."

He could not disobey; _amme_ told him he must be good. So he went, dabbling his feet in the cold pool, watching the waterfall splash into the cup.

He was not afraid when the two strange Elves came, one with red hair and one with black; he went with them willingly, and led them to the cave when one asked him in oddly-accented Sindarin for his brother.

The elder child rose to his feet, alarmed, when the three entered the cave; but by then it was too late.


	2. Dreaming

**Author's Note:** The inspiration for this one is owed to two sources: the song "Evening Falls" by Roma Ryan, and the picture "Finrod dreaming by the waters of Sirion" by Jenny Dolfen. Ingoldo is an older name for Finrod (the use of which I have shamelessly stolen from **Perelleth)**, and Turukáno is of course dear cousin Turgon.

**Dreaming**

With his eyes closed, Ingoldo half-dared to dream that the placid water-sounds were not mere echoes of Lórien's dream-pools but the pools themselves; that the drowsy light bathing his supine form was not that of wistful Rána but that of the White Tree; that the light breathing close beside him came not from his cousin but from his Amarië.

It was all so clear, as he saw it with his dream-eyes: a golden-haired youth dreaming in Irmo's gardens, one hand tucked beneath his head, the other resting peacefully on his chest; a golden-haired maiden sitting beside him, weaving a garland of white dream-flowers. Entranced, he opened his real-eyes; she turned at once and smiled at him.

"Amarië." He whispered the one word, and all fell into reality. Scarcely daring to breathe for fear of waking again, he stretched a hand toward her, brushing her smooth fingers with his, trembling with the fear of touching her again.

"Heart, did you think I would not wait?" she murmured, her voice gentle and sweet as he thought he remembered, taking his hand softly.

He could not move, could not think, could think of no more words to say but - "Amarië."

"Your place is not here," she told him, sadly, quietly. "Not yet." Turning his palm up in her own, she closed his fingers around the blossoms, even as grey mist surrounded her. "Sleep now, and dream no more, and return to me when your journey is over." She released his hand.

"Amarië!" But she was gone, a shadow of a dream; the Moon shone down timidly; and Turukáno stirred beside him, caught in a restless dream; and the Sirion flowed, unrelenting; and the flowers caught in his fist soon wilted and died.


	3. Fear

**Author's Note: ** On Finrod and the Darkness Unescapable. This one is notable as my first actual drabble that fits the hundred-word guideline. Any and all reviewers shall be loved.

**Fear**

Once I was alone; afraid in the dark, I sang loudly to frighten the fears away. Then he was there (my father) and clasped my hand and smoothed my hair and sang back to me, and the fear fled. That time I was saved.

Once I was nearly alone; afraid in the dark, I sang softly to frighten the fears away. But he was not there (my father) and the dark was upon us, and the fear would not flee; then I knew that the mortal must not die, and the undying could not live. That time he was saved.


	4. Walls

**Author's Note:** Another 100-word drabble, this on the theme of windows. And yet another piece which displays my blasphemous sympathies for Eöl the Dark Elf. Horrors!

**Walls **

She stares up, down, away, anywhere. She, fragile bloom, wilts in the ever-dusk. He, Dark Elf, needs, covets her light; she shall not fade away!

"I could build you one."

Her glance darts toward him, uncomprehending, still flickering the residual brightness of her spirit. He presses on, desperately. "A window. You could see the sun. If you wish."

She looks at him then, almost-smiles for the first time, cautious; he leans into her light, basking in unaccustomed warmth. Only for a moment: she turns away too quickly, stares at the wall again, dreams of the sun.

He builds the window.


	5. Living

**Author's Note:** This one was written on the topic of "Putting on these clothes," and naturally the event which came to mind was reincarnation; thus, please welcome Glorfindel to our little corner of the web.

**Living **

Coordination is more difficult than he imagined it should be: arm is here, leg there; ten fingers, two eyes, one tongue; an extra bit of blood and flesh and bone to reconfigure just where he is unaccustomed to such solidity. Now he must think again in terms of the beating heart and the cyclic breath; those simple elements of life which he has forgotten, being dead.

He experiments: pulls himself up with unsteady arms onto tottering legs; takes an infant's first step and falls just as quickly. Tries again; falls, again; repeats, again, again...

It was easier, he thinks, dying.


	6. His Tragedy

**Author's Note:** The title of this drabble comes from another of my pieces, "Waiting, Wanting, Knowing," and was inadvertently suggested by **The Bookbinder's Daughter**. The prompt is "Most is said when nothing is spoken," the action is the Shipburning at Losgar, the character is Maedhros, and the dedication goes out to **Maitimo** of ToB.

**His Tragedy**

It was the smell of smoke that first awakened the Prince; still unaccustomed to that scent, he hurried out in uncomprehending dread. It was the ships, Findekáno, his brothers, his dreams -- burning, burning -- !

He stared at the white ships burning all to red and, more slowly, to black; stared until his eyes bled hot tears, which his pride choked upon and the wind soon whisked dry.

In silence he watched his father turning dreams to ash; in silence turned away. And it was this silence which shamed him most, all the years of his long exhausted life.


	7. After

**Author's Note:** On the prompt "…because there the trees were loved." In honor of Celeborn, Ents and Earth Day.

**After **

Imagine that at last the Ents are gone; a tall silver-haired figure stands cloaked in grey, catching the dusty sunbeams with weary-widening gaze.

For ages uncounted they passed through this wood, pausing years, decades, centuries; each time he hoped they would stay; each time he knew that the time must come for them to leave again.

Standing there in the shadows of the great silver-skinned trees, feeling the forest wither, he asks the question: _why here? _

The answer comes as a sigh, a rustle in the aspen-leaves, the dry wind in the ash: _because here the trees were loved. _


	8. Out

**Author's Note:** The prompt was "quietness"; my personal theme was loneliness and fear, and Fëanor. The title references Frost, who referenced Shakespeare himself, and I thought it was mildly appropriate here, and especially for the Spirit of Fire.

**Out**

The silence was the first thing he noticed, that first time he stepped outside the world's walls. After a life filled with sound -- crackling flame, quiet well-pleased singing, angry shouts, dark hoarse whispers, the melody of hammer on anvil, the snap of the bow-string, joyful laughter -- a lonely voice weeping in pain, a heart slowly breaking -- this quietness was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, strange.

He babbled to himself, at first, trying to fill up the empty space -- but his voice was pulled from him into that deep nothingness.

He was alone: for the first time, Fëanáro was frightened.


	9. Perspective

**Author's Note:** This prompt, to describe a character from the point of view of a character of a different race as though seeing them for the first time, called out to me in the voice of James Earl Jones to write about Turgon's first meeting with Huor. And so I did.

**Perspective**

_Young_ was the word that came to mind, when first he saw this child; _alive_ followed close behind. He had the scent of freshness, newness, originality. He was a novelty, here amongst the mass of warriors with old weary eyes.

And the way he walked through the streets of his city: the wondrous dreaming expression on his face; this child made the King proud again of what he had wrought. This child, he thought, could have been one of the Noldor; creator and builder, curious and wise.

And he knew this was why he kept this child and his brother.


	10. Secret

**Author's Note:** Whose was the first betrayal, after all? Daeron watches Lúthien for 100 words and the prompt "a piece of the puzzle."

**Secret**

A heart can break and mend in the space of a glance, the musician has learned. His fingers caress the strings softly now, drawing a whisper of yearning from the harp which his own voice cannot give.

In the old days, her eyes flickered three ways: to the earth, to the sky, to the harper. Now she looks only into the wood, to the dark trees huddled like women round the tale-fire. Something else - _someone_ - has caught her interest tonight.

The musician plays on, his heart healing, harder than before. He will learn her secret soon, he vows.


	11. Absolutes

**Author's Note**: This drabble was written in response to a prompt about "moonlight welling through the marble walls"; the image makes me think of book!Arwen, and thus this small tribute to Gondor's Queen-in-waiting.

**Absolutes**

Her fingers dancing: the only motion in the room, white against the sable that drapes her lap. White and black encompass her world now; moonlight and marble, midnight and velvet.

And as she sews, sometimes she dreams; her dreams now are made of solemn things, life and love and death; sometimes her hands fall idle to her lap. Sometimes her slow tears stain the banner a darker black, shadow upon shadow; more often her fingers, faltering only a moment, recover and sew on a little faster.

For she knows, this woman, that the most important dream is that of love.


	12. Great is the Fall

**Author's Note**: This was inspired by a prompt inviting writers to become the Anduin, the Great River, the catalyst of the journey in FoTR and a vast presence throughout the tale. Combine this fascinating idea with my own love for Boromir and you have this drabble-poem. The title comes from Gondolin and really belongs to Turgon, but I believe that Boromir, too, is worthy of the honor.

**Great is the Fall**

I am the River,  
enemy, lover:  
I am called Great -  
and I wait.

There is a Man,  
stumbling, alone,  
proud, unbending,  
to me wending:

Him I love,  
tested and proved;  
no wish to drown him!-  
I will crown him.

Him I wait for,  
warrior, traveller,  
known and unknown,  
to carry him home.

Him I yearn for,  
hider, revealer,  
conqueror, king:  
my all things.

Him I feel,  
phantasm and real,  
shiver and salt,  
never grow old.

Him I sense,  
battling and tense;  
gone now -  
not long now -

I am the River,  
enemy, lover:  
I am called Great -  
so I wait.


	13. His Tragedy II

**Author's Note:** Written for a "Fire" prompt, this follows the earlier chapter "His Tragedy", though chronologically it happens much later. Again, thanks to **The Bookbinder's Daughter**!

**His Tragedy II**

He, son of fire, understands the fire in a way that comes through experience, through agony unbearable. The moment he took the unclothed flame in his hand he understood that he was one too twisted of spirit, too blackened of heart to bear the bloodwashed jewel, his father's creation.

He, through silence most guilty of them all, thought that the fire he kindled was a mere spark when placed beside that of the others--

But at last he knows that what they say is true:

_Parva saepe scintilla contempta magnum excitavit incendium_;  
a spark neglected hath oft a conflagration raised.


	14. Float On

**Author's Note**: Inspired by a "Water" prompt and by the Maroon 5 song "Not Falling Apart", and my own changing conception of Caranthir as a tragic figure.

**Float On **

Karnistir leans his head back, touching just the nape of his neck to the water's surface, letting his hair drift like dark seaweed around his shoulders. Slowly he allows himself to sink until the waterline reaches the top of his forehead.

He could do it, he thinks, gazing up at the azure world of his sky; lay back under the water, push the breath from his body, remain there forever.

Then he ducks abruptly under the water, rises, blinks the water from his eyes, dresses, leaves that place. His hair leaves a wet mark like a memory on his back.


	15. Night Under Night

**Author's Note:** First drabble in a long time -- yes, the Drabbles board at Parma is operational again, hurray! This one is for two prompts: the theme "birth" and Tom Bombadil's poem "Wake now my merry lads" (whence comes the title, in a twisted sense). And it's dark, and it's on the birth of Túrin Turambar. Which is pretty amazing for Vana the Elf-obsessed, actually.

**Night Under Night**

After the agony and the sudden gripping terror, the mindless fear that she and the child will die here together (_the pain is too great, something is wrong_) -- she drifts in a haze of joy and sorrow. It is over.

Morwen Eledhwen dreams worlds, falling over and over into herself; and yet she half-feels, half-knows this birth is strange. This babe is not like other infants: his eyes as she holds him in her arms are dark and old.

_The raven days are coming._ This she knows with the wisdom and grief of all mothers. His life will be dark.


End file.
